by Sue Watson
‘So, your phone number?’ he asks. He’s taken out a small leather notebook and I wonder fleetingly if there are already other women’s names and numbers in his little book.
But I give him my number, what harm can it do? I can always say no if he does ever call. Can’t I?
We walk slowly back towards the hotel in the sunshine. I am with Peter and I’m fizzing with excitement but a cloud covers the sun and I can’t help but feel a little shiver.
Chapter Six
After meeting him again I feel unsettled. I was beginning to contemplate a kind of life without Mike, but now the past and the present have crashed into each other and I’m thinking more and more about Peter. I know there are issues between us, things we need to say, but it’s like someone has blown a dandelion clock into the air, and for now I just want to grasp at the wafting memories. My work is second nature to me, so it isn’t affected by these distracting thoughts laced with tantalising and sometimes painful memories. But my head is full of him and the past and I’m talking to people on autopilot, nodding and saying ‘lovely’, or ‘that’s nice’, when they might be telling me something horrific. I was talking to a customer only this morning telling her ‘how excited’ she must be as she booked flowers for her grandfather’s funeral. I feel like I’m in limbo, living in the now, but taken over by the past.
Alone in the back of the shop I add white baby’s breath to a bouquet, marvelling at the delicate, frothy flower heads while my mind is drawn back once more to Peter.
I remember him walking me to my bus stop, after college, when he suddenly said: ‘Rosie, I’m going to paint you naked one day.’ I was shocked at this and felt myself blush from my toes. At the same time I felt a flurry of something inside, a new and wonderful sensation, like a trapped bird in my tummy. I wasn’t as outraged as I knew I should have been and felt a warm tingle go through me. I’d never had these feelings before and I wasn’t sure I should be having them then either.
‘Pierre Morton, you are very forward,’ I said, with half a smile. We arrived at the bus stop and as I leaned against it he faced me, looking straight into my eyes.
‘Yeah, I am. But you can call me Peter.’
‘Do you always ask girls if you can paint them naked . . . Peter?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ he said, a smile playing on his lips. ‘I told you I would. And I will.’ His confidence sometimes bordered on arrogance; unlike me he had no self-doubts and along with his laughing eyes I found this self-assurance so attractive.
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ I said, afraid my legs would give way.
‘No, just sure of my subject.’ He was looking me up and down. ‘Has anyone ever told you, you look a bit like Marianne Faithfull?’
‘No . . . not really.’ I remembered my brother’s friend Mike had once commented on the likeness, but I hadn’t taken him seriously.
‘You could go to London and be a model.’
‘I don’t want to. I want to go to Paris and be an artist,’ I said, a teenager unable to accept a compliment. I was flattered but trying not to show it.
‘Yeah, you could earn a living as an artist – you’re good enough.’
I blushed again and felt a stab of disappointment as the bus arrived. But by now I knew we were more than just friends, a bud was growing between us, and as we said goodbye I waltzed onto that bus like I was Marianne Faithfull.
I smile to myself now, thinking about that girl. She was young and beautiful and talented and for the first time she had a slight inkling what it might feel like to be in love.
And sitting on the bus she allowed herself to imagine Peter kissing her, his tongue probing her mouth, his hands moving all over her. But it was the sixties and she was torn between feeling terribly wonderful and terribly guilty. And despite it being a cold, dark December afternoon in the north of England, she was so hot she had to take off her cardigan.
The Monday after the wedding I’m working at the shop when the phone rings, and I have a sixth sense and just know it’s Peter.
‘Hello, Rosie?’ And I remember again how I always loved the way he said my name, gentle and soft.
‘Ah, so you called?’ I smile. Anna looks up from a pile of carnations with a questioning expression, assuming she must know who I’m talking to. After all, my life is hers – and hers is her own.
‘I know it’s so soon after we met, but I was scared we might lose touch again. I wanted so much to meet I couldn’t wait and didn’t want to leave it any longer.’
‘Well, it’s been forty-seven years, I don’t think a few more days would make any difference,’ I say, feeling a little put out. He calls me now when nothing is at stake, when nothing’s expected of him, yet he never called me when I needed him, when he said he would.
‘Rosie, just tell me to go away if you’d rather not. I just thought we should talk and I really want to see you again . . . ’
This older Peter seems hesitant, slightly unsure of himself and I find it endearing. I want to talk too and hear myself say, ‘Yes, that sounds good.’
Peter is a big part of my story and I will regret it if I never see him again, even if it is only once, just to find out the rest of his story.
‘Okay. As it happens I’m up near you later this week.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure about meeting here,’ I say quietly, aware Anna has stopped what she’s doing and is now looking at me. She mouths ‘Who is it?’ and I wave my hand at her as if to say ‘It’s nothing,’ and take the phone into the back of the shop. ‘What about somewhere further – halfway, perhaps?’ I say, preferring not to meet him here in the town where we used to be us. I’d rather see him somewhere we’ve never been together, I don’t want the past to crowd in on the present.
We agree on Friday at New Street station in Birmingham, halfway between Manchester and Oxford. Despite my older self telling me not to get carried away, I feel a frisson of fear and excitement as I put down the phone.
I compose myself, and wander back into the shop where Anna is now dealing with a customer. As soon as the customer is gone, she whizzes round.
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Oh . . . just then, you mean? It was an old friend . . . ’
‘You mean that Peter, the guy you met at the Parker wedding?’
‘Yes.’ I can feel my colour rising, so silly at my age, but I feel like a kid again. I really want to see him, I hope I’m not being stupid.
‘I thought he lived in Oxford?’
‘He does. So we’re meeting up on Friday . . . in Birmingham. Will you be okay with me having my usual Friday off?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, we’re quite busy though – but Izzy will be here and Mrs Jackson is doing a few hours on buttonholes, God help us. I’m hoping there isn’t too much damage she can do.’
I slip back into Peter reverie and Anna continues with what she’s doing, but I know her and she’s dying to know more. Sure enough, a few seconds later she’s thought of a way of hacking back in.
‘Birmingham, that’ll be nice, there are lots of new shops and nice restaurants there now.’
‘Yeah? We’re just doing lunch. It was such an amazing coincidence to meet up again, we had such a good time at college and I think we both want to relive it a little, just as friends, you know? Pure nostalgia really.’
The door clangs as another customer comes in and Anna goes to greet them. I put the kettle on, hoping the steam might conceal the mottling that is sure to be covering my chest.
‘I can drop you off at Piccadilly for your train on Friday, Mum,’ she says later, when the customer has left.
‘That would be great, thank you. It’s just a lunch,’ I add unnecessarily, wondering who I’m trying to convince. I don’t want to discuss my conflicting feelings yet with Anna . . . well, with anyone. I have a good relationship with my girls but they have their own lives, separate from mine, and it will be good for all of us if I now try and do things independently from them. After Mike died they form
ed a wall around me to protect my feelings, but I feel ready to start taking down the bricks. My life is an open book that my children assume begins and ends with their births, which is partially true, but I had a life before them, and in meeting Peter I’m going back there and it’s something I must do alone. I’ve been thinking about the next stage of my life a lot recently. I can’t rely on my kids too much, it isn’t fair on them and it isn’t good for me. The girls are both settled and happy now and don’t need me like they may have done in the past, so where does that leave me? Even the grandchildren don’t need me any more except for the odd lift to dance class or to join them for an evening when Anna goes out. So what am I left with? Work and walking the dog? I’m beginning to think there must be more than that.
I keep thinking about Friday when I’m seeing him again and I go from being deliriously excited to being petrified and doubting my sanity. Last night I woke about four a.m. and seriously considered calling him first thing and saying ‘I can’t make it, and I never will,’ and just putting down the phone. Today I’m like a teenager again, deciding what to wear, how to have my hair, and holding conversations with Peter in my head. I can’t read a book, settle down to watch TV or even talk to customers without my mind drifting towards the rose gardens and his beautiful smile.
I keep asking myself why him, why now? Is it fate? Are we the same people we were? And can I bear to excavate the past, delve into my own bottled-up feelings?
The train ride is pleasant, I buy a magazine and a black coffee and leaf through the glossy pictures as the world goes by through the window. I can’t possibly read or think because if I do I might just call him and cancel. I’m having a wobble, wishing Mike was here and everything was as it used to be. If he were still alive I wouldn’t even contemplate this meeting, but he isn’t, so why am I feeling guilty? It’s not a date, it’s lunch with someone I used to know well. That’s what I keep telling myself as I get off the train and walk to John Lewis, the landmark where we’d arranged to meet.
I scan the area quickly and my heart jumps a little – there he is, waiting. I see him first, which gives me the chance to observe him unaware as I approach. He is still quite delicious in jeans and a white linen shirt, looking at least ten years younger than he actually is. Standing in the doorway of the store, he’s looking at something in the window and I am able to observe him unaware. He’s tall and still very slim with a full head of thick, dark grey hair – and I see he still has that something as a passing woman gives him a second glance. A familiar wave of mild jealousy washes over me. No wonder I was sometimes insecure with a man like Peter; I can see it now through older eyes, my teenage love, stinging jealousy enhanced by hormones. I am safe now, on the shores of sixty-something, and I can only pity the poor, helpless girl I once was – jelly in his hands. I’m close to him now and as he looks away from the window he suddenly sees me and his face lights up like it used to. We walk quickly towards each other, our arms open, and when we come together we embrace warmly for a long time. And I shouldn’t feel like this, but I don’t ever want to extricate myself from him.
Eventually we pull apart and do that thing people do when they are at a loss: we talk about lunch, where to go, what to eat. I can’t imagine either of us is hungry, but it’s the accepted thing to do and gives us a purpose, a structure. So we drift aimlessly towards the restaurant area, making meaningless comments: ‘I can’t believe it,’ and ‘after all this time,’ and ‘is it really you?’ Eventually we wander into an Italian chain restaurant which I’m sure he wouldn’t usually be seen dead in.
We sit down, gaze briefly at the menu and both choose a pasta dish. He orders a bottle of red and when it arrives the waitress pours it into huge round glasses and we sip it slowly, gratefully.
‘Thank you for meeting up today,’ he says, putting down his glass, meeting my eyes.
‘Thank you for inviting me.’
‘Well I did wonder if you’d say yes, I had to take a deep breath. Even at my age rejection isn’t easy.’ He smiles that lazy smile that begins in his eyes and works its way to his mouth.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to meet you, but then I just heard myself say yes.’ I smile. ‘I don’t know if I would have suggested it though.’
‘I suppose I’m old-fashioned – I believe the man should make the first call.’
‘My granddaughter would be furious to hear you say that,’ I sigh, ‘and me too – I’m not that seventeen-year-old any more, who swoons if you open a door for me.’
‘No, I can see you’re a woman now. You’ve lived a life and you look good on it.’
I blush like a young girl. ‘I didn’t want you to feel obligated to call me to meet up.’
‘Why on earth would I feel obligated? I’ve been looking for you . . . for ever.’
I look at him and the tenderness in his eyes, the sincerity in his voice softens me.
‘We had such great times, Rosie. All those hopes and dreams, all the plans we had.’
I nod. I want to remind him that he was the one who crushed those plans, who wrecked those dreams, but I just take a large drink of wine and smile.
‘I wanted to see you, because – well, I wanted to see you. But apart from that I just feel like I need to face what happened, the way I behaved towards you . . . ’
‘You were young and you wanted so much more . . . but then so did I.’
‘I was young, yes, and I was stupid and selfish and cruel.’
‘I suppose that comes with the territory when you’re eighteen,’ I sigh, trying to be grown up about it. ‘I really thought you’d save me . . . I needed you.’ I blurt this out, accusingly, it wasn’t my intention, I couldn’t help it. Instead of forgiving and letting the past stay where it was, the feelings have all bubbled up when I wasn’t looking and I can feel my eyes stinging.
‘Oh God, Rosie – I’m sorry . . . ’
‘No, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this meeting to be about apologies and regret . . . there’s really no point.’ I take a tissue from my bag and pretend I have dust in my eye. After all we had I don’t want it to end up as some confrontation in a pseudo-Italian chain restaurant in the middle of Birmingham. I have no intention of being the scorned woman who’s held onto bitterness and resentment all her life, because that’s not who I am. ‘I agreed to meet because I’d like to talk, I want to know where you’ve been, what you’ve done, what happened after me. But for the sake of what we had I don’t want us to be unkind to each other. If this is the one time we meet again, let’s make it a happy one, or it will all have been for nothing. We’ve both had happy lives, of course there have been the “what ifs?” But doesn’t everyone have those?’
He nods, raises his hand to my cheek and strokes my lips with his thumb.
I am stunned by the intimacy of this and shocked at how it makes me feel. He seems to realise my surprise and immediately removes his hand. I take a large glug of wine and we both smile awkwardly.
‘I’ve thought of those lips for over forty years,’ he says, staring into my eyes.
I never expected this, I already feel completely out of control.
‘So as this is a first and last lunch,’ I say, trying to wipe away the intimacy and keep things on a friendship level, ‘let’s just be happy and remember only good things. To no regrets.’ I raise my glass.
He raises his. ‘No regrets.’ He takes a sip. ‘I take it that means Paris is out of the question?’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘You were always such a dreamer, Peter . . . or should I say Pierre?’
‘I’m horrified even now to think I called myself Pierre.’
‘I know, and you smoked French cigarettes.’
‘I’m going red. I was so gauche, why did nobody tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was too busy wearing black polo neck jumpers and pretending I was an existentialist who lived on the Left Bank. You weren’t the only gauche kid in town.’
‘God, we were so young, weren’t we?’
As a strident almost-seventeen-year-old determined to make her mark, I couldn’t see the vulnerability behind my mother’s folded arms and disapproving face. I would have no truck with what I wrongly perceived to be Margaret’s sheer meanness. ‘You’re just jealous,’ was my clarion cry as I stormed upstairs and slammed my bedroom door following yet another row about the length of my skirt/lashes/hair.
I can see now that she was perhaps frightened of the unknown. She hated the idea of me going to ‘that college’ and longed for me to settle down and marry a local lad, someone who would keep me in the same town I’d been born in. This, she believed, would also bring me to my senses and stop my ‘silly dreaming’. But the times they were a-changing and the more Margaret expressed her concern at losing her only daughter to the debauched student life she’d read about in the Sunday papers, the more that daughter dreamed.
We both take another sip and look at each other.
‘I don’t suppose Margaret’s still around?’ he says.
‘No, she died a few years back, not long after Dad died. My eldest brother David died too, thankfully after Mum and Dad.’
‘You had another brother . . . was he called Mark?’
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Mark’s only a couple of years older than me – he and his family moved to Australia. We send Christmas cards, but we were never that close. I don’t miss my brothers, but I miss Margaret. Funny, I never thought I’d say that.’
‘She was a tour de force, I’m not surprised you miss her – I imagine she left quite a void. I lost both my parents too . . . Sad, but part of life, I suppose.’
‘Mmm, I remember your mother,’ I say, trying to hide the dislike in my voice.
‘Enough about everyone else. How are you, Rosie?’ he says, probably keen to move off the subject of his mother. He is leaning forward, taking it all up a notch and looking earnestly into my face.